


Et in Arcadia ego

by Pepperish



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eurotrip, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied Reincarnation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, implied soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7038883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepperish/pseuds/Pepperish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He left Boston because there was nothing left worthy staying for. He was all alone and, on top of all else, he was free. It was a feeling he wanted to crush with his bare hands. Bellamy Blake, lone wolf, burnt and scarred, 26.</p><p> She left it because seeing the face of her past every day – in the faces of everyone she’s ever loved – was too much. Maybe not all of those who wander are lost, but she definitely is. Clarke Griffin, wanderer, alive, 23.</p><p> It was a tragedy meant to repeat itself, woven in the very essence of their existence. A boy pouring love like blood until it washed his body and painted it red. A girl who once encompassed a whole universe inside, a girl that is now a black hole on her own.</p><p>(Or: The one in which they meet under the italian sky and are made of roman tragedies and fallen empires)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Et in Arcadia ego

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marauders_groupie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/gifts).



> For Lana (@marauders_groupie) because without her, and her heart-swelling soulmate!au, this wouldn’t exist. I hope you enjoy it and don't mind that I'm weird and leave socially awkward messages in your inbox.
> 
> It was supposed to be short, I don't even know how it turned out 4.6k long, but here it is!

 Like the best things in life tend to do, it started with heartbreak.

 For Bellamy it was his sister’s voice echoing in the darkness of his room, in every crevice of his mind, _you’re dead to me, you’re dead to me, you’re dead to me_.

 For Clarke, heartbreak was this hollow space inside of her nothing could ever fill again, like miles and miles of barren earth. Sterile, raw, void. The sound of tires screeching, asphalt crumbling and the world toppling sideways.

 He left Boston because there was nothing left worthy staying for. He was all alone and, on top of all else, he was free. It was a feeling he wanted to crush with his bare hands. Bellamy Blake, lone wolf, burnt and scarred, 26.

 She left it because seeing the face of her past every day – in the faces of everyone she’s ever loved – was too much. Maybe not all of those who wander are lost, but she definitely is. Clarke Griffin, wanderer, alive, 23.

 It was a tragedy meant to repeat itself, woven in the very essence of their existence. A boy pouring love like blood until it washed his body and painted it red. A girl who once encompassed a whole universe inside, a girl that is now a black hole on her own.

 They were bound to end up in Rome, where buildings hum with the great tragedies of the fury of Gods and the cruelty of humans. Because there, the streets entwine with every fiber of your heart and feed on your martyrdom. The city where the sun sets like a dying breath.

 And there, Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin were always bound to collide and create such an explosion that would either put their pieces back together or break them for good.

 Either way, they were born to burn each other to the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

 He notices her first in the Vatican Museums.

  While everyone is staring at the walls, she’s in the center of the room, eyes shut.  It looks like she’s breathing in her surroundings, appreciating the art with her lungs, her feet, the fine hairs on the back of her neck, instead of her eyes. It’s a nice sight.

  He loses her in the crowds as he moves forward. Inevitable, of course, and Bellamy doesn’t think much of it. He has a list of pieces he wants to see and spends a lot of time in each one, more interested in the artists and their societal context than the brushwork itself.

  It’s hours later, daylight starting to fade outside, when he decides it’s time for him to go.

 Bellamy sees the blonde girl on his way out. She has a sketchpad on her lap and fingers blackened by charcoal.

  For a second, he thinks she might look up and their gazes will clash. Why he’s sure that would be electrifying, he doesn’t know, but the certainty rings in his bones. She never does raise her eyes and he doesn’t get to find out, so Bellamy pushes back his misplaced disappointment and walks away.

  Roman air greets him, so cold it stings, and really nothing is better, but Bellamy squares his shoulders like he’s preparing to fight the world and keeps moving anyway. His tongue tastes just as bitter as he makes his way into the city.

  

* * *

 

  

 Clarke notices him in a tiny trattoria.

  He’s nursing a black coffee with way too much milk and sugar and his table is littered with too many souvenirs to be considered acceptable. Maybe he has a thing for small coliseum plastic keychains, she muses, even if they’re bright blue and obnoxious.

 (Why would anyone even make a blue coliseum keychain?)

  She was sketching the streets when he caught her attention, all sharp edges and messy, pitch-black curls. The man’s attempting to speak Italian with the waiter, but he seems to think Italian actually meant Latin and the whole thing is honestly so hilarious Clarke has to smother her chuckles against her hand.

 (It’s been some time since she laughed, it sounds off)

  With the pencil firm in her hands, she traced the lines of his face and the gentle curve of his locks, can’t help but think of roman gods and fallen empires. He has the kind of face that could inspire masses to throw themselves into battle.

  The stranger occupies himself by reading after giving up on the waiter and pointing at something on the menu. It’s a copy of The Aeneid, and Clarke wonders if he’s honest to God the nerd with the best arms she’s ever seen or if he just thinks it’s theme appropriate. He sometimes scribbles in the margins, so she’s favoring the first.

  By the time she’s done with her coffee and sketches, Clarke considers approaching him. He’s not reading anymore, his book still open over the table, but his attention lost to the world outside his head.

  It’s the hardness in his eyes that makes her halt. For all his chiseled edges, nothing about that man seemed really made of marble until she sees his eyes.

  For some reason, Clarke thinks he’s going to look her way and something in the universe will fall into place. He doesn’t, and Clarke settles for pulling her scarf more snugly around her neck and leaving.

 

* * *

 

  Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin don’t meet until it’s 2 A.M. of a Tuesday in the Laundromat of their small hotel.

  He’s finally done loading the washing machine when she all but stumbles in, hair a mess, wine bottle in hand.

  Clarke takes a look between him and the machine and slowly lifts an eyebrow.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Trying to use this washing machine to go back in time.” Bellamy’s expression is perfectly stoic and she scowls.

 “Never heard that one before, funny.” Clarke deadpans. “I was using that machine.”

 “That’s yours?” He motions to a pile of laundry neatly folded over the table and, somehow, the neatness only makes Clarke glare harder at him.

 “Yes. There’s a _queue_. I was here first.”

 “No, I was here first. The washing machine was open and only half filled with your clothes, but there was no one here.” Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest and Clarke has to focus on looking angrily at his face, instead of letting her eyes travel. He really has nice arms, it’s unfair. “You’re a mess, did you know that?”

 “Please don’t act like you know me, I have enough condescending jerks in my life as it is.” She rolls her eyes and steps closer, spine straight like she thinks if she stretches enough, she’ll look more intimidating than her measly 5’3’. “If there were clothes on the machine, that means I was here first. You’ll have to wait.”

 “Really princess?” He smirks. “I don’t think so. Shouldn’t have abandoned your stuff if you wanted to use the laundromat. Count yourself lucky you weren’t robbed.”

 “I didn’t think there’d be anyone else trying to do laundry at _two in the morning._ ”

 “I aim to surprise.” Bellamy’s frown only deepens when she marches over and takes the pile of clothes in her arms. “What are you doing?”

 “Laundry, can’t you see?” She shoves her items into the washing machine and all but slams the door. “If you’re going to be a dick about it, so will I.” She presses the button with her chin raised defiantly.

  Bellamy sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

 “This is too weird for a fucking Tuesday night.”

  Clarke suppresses a smile at that, focusing on opening the bottle on her hands.

  When the cap is off, she takes two huge gulps of the liquid then silently offers it to him. Never one to turn down free booze, Bellamy takes it.

  It’s not that great of a wine and a bit too dry for his taste, but it runs smoothly down his throat and makes him feel a little better.

 “Why did you leave?”

 “Excuse me?” Clarke has propped herself over the table and was a bit too distracted trying to figure out what was the tattoo she could see peaking from under his shirt sleeve without being obvious about it. Still, the question sends her heart pummeling against her ribcage so hard it might bruise.

 “You were putting your clothes on the machine. Why did you leave?”

   _Of course_ , Clarke forces herself to breathe evenly, _of course that’s it_.

  She finally looks him straight in the eyes and maybe the stars don’t immediately align, but it is exhilarating nonetheless. Bellamy’s eyes aren’t exactly warm, they have that stone quality to them that kept her from approaching him the first time, but they look like they could be. The fact that Clarke thinks it’s something she’d like to see sends a shiver down her spine.

 “I forgot the wine.”

 “And you couldn’t even wait until you were finished?” He sounds amused and hands her the bottle back.

 “Again, I didn’t think I’d have competition.” Her lips quirk upwards ever so slightly. “Especially of the asshole variety.”

 “Well, you know what they say about assuming.”

  They fall into comfortable silence as the machine works and they trade the bottle back and forth until it’s empty.

  When the laundry is done, he helps her separate the pieces, grumbling the whole time. They’re not drunk, but pleasantly tipsy enough to forget they were supposed to be hostile.

 “If I find lacy panties on my stuff, I’m not giving it back.” Bellamy smirks and Clarke glares without heat.

 “Don’t add pervert to your list of bad qualities.”

  He chuckles at that.

 “Don’t kink shame, princess.”

 “It’s not kink shaming if you’re being a psycho about it.” She shrugs, but can’t help her smile. “Goodnight, stranger.”

 “Goodnight, princess.” He starts to walk away from her, but pauses midway and turn back to face her. “It’s Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

  He has a pretty name. Clarke likes it.

 “I’m not going to give you my name, pervert.” She leaves in the opposite direction and his laughter echoes in her mind for a lot longer than it should.

 

* * *

 

  Bellamy’s the one to spot her next, overalls and paint stained sneakers, a glare fit for a girl who could take the world before breakfast.

  For the first time she has a camera instead of a sketchpad, but it’s a worn polaroid and Bellamy can’t hold back a snort.

 “Jesus Christ, you’re such a hipster.”

  She turns to him all sharp teeth, but instead of replying she simply snaps a picture of his face, so close he nearly goes blind from the flash.

 “Hello to you too, stranger.”

 “Hey there, princess.”

  He stays beside her in the line and doesn’t leave when they go in.

  At first, when they start touring together through all the public areas of the coliseum, Clarke thinks they won’t talk much. Not that it bothers her, they stayed silent during most of the night in the laundromat and there was something oddly comforting about the lack of words, but it proves not to be the case shortly after.

  The fact is Bellamy is exactly the enormous nerd she pegged him for, judging by his book choices, and it takes very little prompting for him to start talking. His hands flail around and his deep voice paints thin air while he tells her about Carpophorus, a famous lion slayer who’s rumored to have beaten twenty beasts at once, and Flamma, the Syrian soldier who loved the coliseum so much he chose to bleed and bleed until the sand under his feet was soaked through and he had no strength left to breathe.

  There was a light in his eyes as he spoke and Clarke thought: That’s it, that’s what should have been, but it doesn’t take long for his bright look to become muddled and she doesn’t know how to fight the change.

  The world may be hers for the taking, but Clarke has never been good at mending broken hearts.

  What she does instead is elbow him in the ribs.

 “I know a trattoria nearby with the cheapest wine in the city.”

 “Should I be worried you’re an alcoholic?”

  Clarke elbows him in the ribs again for good measure.

  She drags him through the narrow streets and, just like in the Coliseum, Bellamy points out less famous landmarks and goes on about bits and pieces of history like he can read them in the lines of his hand.

  The trattoria is nice, the simpler kind, completely opposite from the shiny touristic restaurants. Bellamy immediately loves it. They order the cheapest wine in the menu, as promised, and the biggest basket of bread.

 “Why Rome?”

 “Why _not_ Rome?” Bellamy asks, nibbling on a ciabatta. “This has been my favorite place since I was a kid. I spent my whole life wondering if I would be able to come here someday, but there was always something in the way.”

 “I can’t imagine why. Nerd.”

 “Cute, princess.”

 “What changed?” Clarke can see the shadows in his eyes as he closes off. Her fingers itch and hover, tempted to touch him, but not sure how.

  Clarke doesn’t know him, not really. But her whole body recognizes him, like an old friend, like staying away from home for too long but never really forgetting what it’s like. There’s something really rare about Bellamy Blake and Clarke wants all of it with a fierceness she can’t understand.

  It’s not something she wants to think about, so she pushes the thoughts away and focus her attention on the way he swallows, hard and dry.

 “I figured that if I had nothing left, I might as well come.”

 “Yeah, Rome has this kind of appeal.” She smiles softly and Bellamy relaxes, satisfied she didn’t try to pry further.

 “You?”

 “I like Europe, thought a change of air would do me some good.” She says haughtily. It’s not the truth and Bellamy can see it, clear as day, but he repays the favor by saying:

 “Princess. Definitely a princess.”

 “Clarke.”

  The way his eyes fixate on her makes Clarke hot and cold at the same time, but she doesn’t look away.

 “Clarke.” He repeats, his low voice curling around her name, tasting it. Bellamy seems to like it, because he ducks his head to hide a grin. “Decided I’m not a psycho?”

 “Something like that.” She sips her wine. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

  They set about eating and Bellamy wonders if feeling something so _right_ when everything in his life is so wrong is another sin to add to his supply. But Clarke looks at him and the way her blue eyes reminds him a little more of a sunny sky instead of a storm tells him what he ought to know.

  It can’t be a sin if it’s inevitable.

 

* * *

  

 She finds him in the rooftop of their hotel one night, leather jacket and cigarette smoke like a second skin, a tougher one.

  Bellamy’s wistfully watching the sun stain the clouds in various hues of pink, red and orange and it might have been beautiful, hadn’t she recognized the broken look in his face. Clarke sits beside him silently and takes the cig of his fingers, only to smother it on the ground.

 “These are lethal, did you know?”

 “So is pain, but we all feel it anyway.” He says it light, teasing almost, but the upward curve of his lips is borderline cruel. “It’s human nature to find ways to destroy yourself. Romans would know.”

  She just hums and nods. Together, they watch the day end, slow and final, and it feels significant even if the sun is going to come up again in the morning. A thousand lives ending the exact same way, day in day out. A star that commits the ultimate sacrifice so the moon can shine.

  Apollo and Diana _are_ siblings, after all, Bellamy can’t help but notice.

 (It’s like every pain has a little bit of death even if your heart is mended come morning)

  It gets cold, but Clarke refuses to move until Bellamy does.

 “You’re too stubborn for your own good, princess.” He says, gruff, but wraps his jacket around her anyway, acting way too nonchalant. Clarke’s not being fooled.

 “Hey, look at the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He glares at her, but it’s half-hearted at best.

 “What are we doing now?” Clarke asks, tucking herself under his arm. His skin is warmer than any jacket.

 “Feel like ordering pizza and drinking wine on the floor?”

 “Bellamy, did you seriously come all the way to Italy to order pizza and watch tv?” When the only answer she gets is the raising of his eyebrows, Clarke smiles. “I’m in, yeah.”

 “Cheeky.” But he’s smiling too.

  His room is a little smaller than hers, but basically the same. Wide bed, narrow desk and old tv. They sprawl over the floor in front of the tv because getting into bed together may be a move they can’t take back.

 They order the two pizzas from the local place around the corner with the silliest toppings they can imagine:

“Pineapple, Clarke? Fruit is _not_ supposed to go on pizzas.”

“Neither is kale, but you ordered it anyway.”

 Clarke can’t stop laughing because Bellamy’s Italian is still atrocious.

(Every time she laughs, Bellamy feels like he’s done something good. It’s a wild feeling.)

 She tells him about the trattoria, he tells her about the museum and these new pieces of information hang in the air. Not exactly acknowledged in their meaning, but _there_.

“What’s your tattoo? I’ve been curious.” He pulls the short sleeve of his shirt up so Clarke can see the wolf etched on his shoulder in black, rich lines. “It’s beautiful.”

 Her fingers move mindlessly, tracing the long-healed outline of the ink. His skin is freckled, like in his face, but it somehow looks perfect, every single dot precisely where it belongs.

“Where have you been, Bellamy Blake?”

 He just smiles, wide and bright, full-force for the first time.

(It’s something Clarke wants to do over and over again. If making him smile was her Sisyphus task, she’d gladly accept it.)

 They watch a history documentary, even though none of them really understand what’s being said. The shots of Macchu Picchu are amazing, though, and Bellamy keeps coming up with ridiculous fake trivia facts.

“They had this religious ceremony where they covered their llamas in glitter –”

“I don’t think they even _had_ glitter, Bellamy. Step up your game!”

“Shut up, princess. They were the glitterest civilization ever.”

 Clarke feels the hollow in her chest shrink, just a bit. There’s warmth in the pit of her stomach and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

 At some point they just give up on the tv and lay side by side, the room dark save from the street lights entering through the curtains.

 Clarke tells him about Wells, about fist fights with assholes who bullied him when they were kids and first nights experimenting on their parents alcohol. She tells him all she can think about Wells’ kindness, how soft, gentle and enduringly he handled the world and how roughly the world handled him back.

 She tells him about Raven and her bigger-than-life dreams and how a lost bullet in her spine made them crumble over her. Clarke tells Bellamy Raven has the best brain and the best heart of anyone she knows, tells him how that girl is going to be remembered for centuries.

 Clarke tells him something about everyone she loved – loves – and left behind because, when she’s talking about them, she can almost feel their touch, she can almost pretend she didn’t tear apart the best thing life has given her.

 Still, she doesn’t tell him about the smell of burnt rubber, about sirens blaring and blank hospital walls.

(That sort of hearbreak doesn’t belong in nights like this)

 In his turn, Bellamy listens. He doesn’t pretend to understand or try to make her actions look better than they actually were, but he listens wholeheartedly and it’s enough.

 When he speaks, his voice is rough.

 In turn, he shares with her tales about his mother and how one day Aurora Blake would sing softly in the kitchen while baking them banana muffins and the very next day would smash a vase against the wall. Bellamy told her about countless nights spent awake sitting against the door of his sister’s room because his mother’s boyfriends were so sleazy they made his skin crawl.

 He tells her about Aurora’s slit wrists and noticing that, apart from having to fight tooth and nail to keep Octavia, his life didn’t change all that much after she’s gone.

(He holds back too and Clarke wonders why someone like him should have to endure so much)

“I’m glad I found you.” She whispers against her arm a second away from dozing off.

 “Sleep, Clarke.”

 

* * *

 

 They choose to go to Firenze together and Bellamy and Clarke bicker for most part of the trip for the smallest things.

“Clarke, can you stay on your own damn seat?” when she manages to put her legs over his lap.

“If you get one drop of this blasphemy on my book, I’ll end you.” when his latte almost topple over her.

“If you don’t like Dostoyevsky, you’re reading it wrong.”

“How can anyone not love chocolate cake? What’s wrong with you?”

 It’s a fun way to pass the time. At some point, Clarke falls asleep against his shoulder and Bellamy props her head in a better angle so she doesn’t wake up with a stiff neck.

“You make a lovely couple.” The woman sitting across from them says with a fond smile.

 He looks down at Clarke and considers telling the woman they’re not a couple, but.

 For these few moments in time, on a train to Firenze that feels more like an alternate universe, they could be. This girl with golden hair and a fire fit to rule could be his. Bellamy could be worth it.

(They always said to be grateful for small miracles. Right then, Bellamy is)

 So he just thanks her and goes back to his book.

 

* * *

 

 Between churches, art galleries and gelatos, there comes a day when Clarke pushes him against a wall and kisses him senseless.

 It’s easy, in a way, but at the same time it’s scorching, wanton and the very best kind of agony.

 They make their way back to the inn with hurried steps and stolen kisses until Clarke’s back is against the mattress and Bellamy’s hands is mapping her skin, sure and perfect.

 Like everything else with them, it’s an ongoing battle. Touches hard enough to drive each other mad, Clarke’s hair tingling sweetly where he pulls it, Bellamy’s back arching when her fingernails trace highways against his skin. But his lips brushes lightly over her forehead and she nuzzles her nose against his collarbone and suddenly it’s open and very, very vulnerable.

 Later that night Bellamy tells her all about a girl with bloody knuckles and a thunderstorm in lieu of a heart. She hears him say Octavia’s name like it’s the only good thing Bellamy has ever known and he had managed to fuck it up. Clarke tightens her hold on his waist. His eyes finds hers and that’s what does her in – where once Clarke saw stone, now she sees warmth.

 Bellamy falls asleep with his lips against her neck.

 Clarke stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and rabid pulse hammering against her ears, for hours still.

(She didn’t know black holes could fall in love)

 

* * *

 

 Of course, just a week later, they blow up.

 It’s been a countdown inside Clarke’s head since the very first night they slept together. Just as inevitable as his lips on her skin or the way her heart races when he’s near.

“What are we even doing?”

“I don’t know!” Bellamy’s hurt and the knowledge that she’s the one who hurt him is unthinkable and obvious at the same time. “I thought we –” He cuts himself shorts and settles for scowling, hard and furious. “Why are you pushing me away, Clarke?”

“I’m not pushing you away.”

(It’s a lie, they both know it)

“Do you need forgiveness, is that what it is?” His voice is raw and cutting. “Whatever it is you did that makes you think you don’t deserve to be happy – I don’t care. If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven, Clarke. Just stop fighting this. Stop fighting me.”

 Clarke feels the tears welling up in her eyes.

“I can’t.” She bites her lip, trying to control the havoc inside her chest. “I don’t know how to.”

“Clarke –”

“Bellamy, this is never going to work! I ruin everything I touch, can’t you see that?”

 He laughs, humorlessly and dry.

 Bellamy Blake is no stranger to self-loathing.

“Don’t you think I can say the same thing?”

 Bellamy knows he won’t be able to convince her even before she speaks the words.

“I won’t ruin you.” Clarke’s voice is small, but her determination isn’t. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t get to decide what I do, Clarke.”

“I’m sorry.”

 These words are finality, a crushing and unfulfilling ending he’s all too familiar with. When Clarke leaves, Bellamy doesn’t even try to stop her.

 It’s funny how he didn’t think he had anything left to lose – the universe never tires of proving him wrong.

(Later, his phone rings and Octavia’s voice is desperate. She keeps repeating _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ and Bellamy wonders if even the universe realizes it went too far this time)

 

* * *

 

 Clarke winds up at his door at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, more wine than blood inside her veins.

 

_“How much did you drink?”_

_“Enough to make Bacchus proud.”_

 

 Bellamy pulls her inside and holds her on the bed, over the covers.

 He holds her when she cries, he holds her when she carves moon-shaped craters into his shoulders, he holds her when she tells him about a truck slamming against the car where she was with her father. He holds her even tighter when she tells him about how she’s the only one that got out alive. Bellamy holds her when she tells him of a girl made to bring peace to the world, who was lost to a war and that it must somehow be her fault because Lexa burned so bright until Clarke touched her.

 “I’m supposed to be dead,” Clarke voice breaks, but she keeps pushing forward. “I’m supposed to be dead, but I love you and I don’t know how that’s even possible.”

“It’s ok, I got you.”

“I don’t want to ruin you.” She echoes, but this time it’s a plea. “But I want you.”

 He places a kiss to her temple.

 “We’ll figure something out.” Clarke looks up at him and Bellamy glares until she believes him. “Together.”

 

* * *

 

 It’s a Sunday morning when they take the plane back to Boston.

 Octavia will be at the airport, same as Raven and Abby, and both their hearts beat wildly, made from the same war drum.

 Clarke entwines her fingers with his and squeezes and this is the moment where the magic happen:

 They will still fall and still bleed, but they have a shot.

 And they really will figure it out.

(Together)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you liked it - or not - PLEASE leave a comment. Authors live and breathe for that shit, honestly.
> 
> Major thanks for my beta, Koneko dearest. Ily forever <3
> 
> You can always find me on [tumblr](http://pepperish.tumblr.com)!


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